


i lie under starlit skies (and the seasons change in the blink of an eye)

by startledstoat111



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Morons Being Morons, Mutual Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startledstoat111/pseuds/startledstoat111
Summary: “Didn’t you hear, bard? Witcher’s don’t have feelings.”Jaskier could not help his smile. “Horseshit.”The smile that curved Geralt’s lips was more genuine then: a small, quicksilver thing of surprising sweetness. Jaskier hated the way it transformed his face; softening as it went. He hated that he could not look away.~~~Or: five apologies, and one time they're not neccessary.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier didn’t know if he’d felt grief like this before. Sure, he’d been tossed broken-hearted from bedchambers; he’d cried watching two lovers reunite; hell, he’d even outlived an aunt or two. But _this-_ this was his heart, the rhythm of his day, his constant companion. They had travelled together for so very long, and okay; they hadn’t always gotten on: sometimes when feeling uncooperative, there was little Jaskier’s honeyed words and gentle fingers could do to soothe the tides, but still. _Still._ A dearer, more loyal friend had never been had.

“Fuck sake, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted, “Stop being so fucking dramatic.”

Jaskier looked up from where he knelt, cradling the shattered pieces of his lute.

“ _Dramatic?”_ He began indignantly. “Oh, I’m so sorry, how would you _like me_ to respond to the loss of my reflection, my voice, my true-“

“Quietly.”

Jaskier could only give a small, outraged cry. “That lute made you famous, and this is how you reply to that? Where is the _empathy?”_

“Somewhere far away, probably with my patience. We need to get going.”

Jaskier sniffed, then reached out to gather the ruined remains of his lute. Despite his playing up of the loss, a lump rose up in his throat none the less. The rosewood; once beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl sweeping up the bow, was no more. The worst part was, Jaskier wasn’t even sure how it had happened: there had been a werewolf; running; fear, and a brief tussle ending with a twist of Geralt’s sword and the usual god-awful spray of monster blood.

The lute had been slung across Jaskier’s back, nestled safely in its home between his shoulder blades, with the weight of it as natural as a limb. And somewhere between there and the way Jaskier had fallen, awkward and desperate, in his struggle to get _the fuck out of the way, thank you very much_ \- was this. Shattered rosewood, and mother of pearls scattered across the ground.

The lute was old; given to him by the elves on his and Geralt’s first trip together: in many ways it marked the start of their relationship: the places where the threads of their lives began to tangle, where _Jaskier’s_ life had begun.

He gathered up each shard, placing each carefully in his saddlebag. His hands shook only slightly. He stayed on his knees a moment longer.

“Well,” He said, forcing some brevity into his too-loud voice. “A tragic end for a loyal companion. I’d almost want to write a song about it, except, well, I’d nothing to write it on. We must stop in the next village anyhow, to recover from this tragedy. I plan on getting absolutely, ridiculously drunk on the finest ale this side of Cintra. I must drown my sorrows somehow.”

“We’re not stopping.” Geralt said, turning to lead Roach away. “We’ve too much ground to cover.”

“Geralt, it’s been _weeks_ since I’ve slept in an actual bed; seen anyone’s face beside your fine specimen, or had an actual _two-sided_ conversation. Come on, what could one night hurt? I mean, sure, it’s not like we’ve got much money, and without my lute, it’s not like we can earn any-“

“I’m sorry about your lute.” Geralt snapped, seemingly losing patience. “But we’re not stopping. If you want a soft bed and someone to pander to your ego, then fine. _Go._ I’m not stopping you.” Geralt turned away, cold anger lining his face, as Jaskier tried very hard not to take his words to heart. He failed. It hurt almost as much as the way the lute had shattered beneath his weight. You’d think, by now, he’d be immune to the hurt Geralt’s words could bring- in fact, Geralt had said much worse, much more often. With the loss of his lute so fresh in his mind though, these words seemed to sink much deeper than usual, and just for a moment, just for a heartbeat, Jaskier considered it.

Later, Jaskier would wonder what would have happened if he had taken Geralt at his word. If he had said _fine:_ strapped the remains of his lute a little tighter against his back, found some lively tavern to sing his woes to, some other whitehaired Witcher to break his heart. If he’d cut his losses before they’d etched themselves into his heart. Yet even then, he was too late, too deep.

Jaskier pretended to consider Geralt’s offer, then shook his head as he bounded to his feet. “Nah, I couldn’t do that to you. You’d miss me too much, and then where would we be?”

Geralt sighed: Jaskier pretended it was one of relief, despite the annoyance he could hear so plainly.

“Right then, oh mighty Witcher, where to, then, if not the homely comforts of a tavern and soft beds?”

“North.”

“Any specifics, or are we just going with a general direction here?”

Geralt settled into silence as they walked, ignoring the majority of Jaskier’s conversation, other than the odd grunt when a question did demand an answer. Eventually though, even Jaskier tailed off, exhaustion getting the better of him. They had been travelling the better part of a day: the werewolf had attacked in the last hour before dawn, and now the sun was beginning its gentle descent, waltzing slowly towards the horizon, as if wanting to savour the day. Jaskier wished it would hurry the fuck up: even Geralt couldn’t travel in the dark of the moon: not with terrain like this.

At least, that’s what Jaskier was hoping; his feet hurt like fuck.

“Don’t suppose we fancy a nap at some point?” He edged. Geralt looked to the road ahead, then to where Jaskier walked just astride Roach’s flank, and let out one of his little grunts, which could have meant anything at all. Jaskier took it to mean acquiescence. “Excellent, I am _exhausted_.”

Camp that night was a simple one: no soft beds, no adoring crowds, just a deer Geralt had caught for their dinner, and Jaskier’s soft humming in place of the murmur of his lute. The forest was quiet around them: most creatures of the day were at rest, and the creatures of the night had not yet woken. They sat for some minutes in peace, just them and the slow crackle of the fire.

“What’s it like?” He asked softly into the silence. “Being a Witcher?”

Geralt looked sideways at him, wry and open in a way he so rarely was.

“I don’t know. It’s all there is.”

“But how does it _feel?_ ”

Geralt’s smile was a small thing, more bitterness than mirth. He leant against the tree beside him: closed his eyes. His voice was the rasp of gravel across rock.

“Didn’t you hear, bard? Witcher’s don’t have feelings.”

Jaskier could not help his smile. “Horseshit.”

The smile that curved Geralt’s lips was more genuine: a small, quicksilver thing of surprising sweetness. Jaskier hated the way it transformed his face; softening as it went. He hated that he could not look away.

Geralt opened his eyes, and Jaskier tried to school his expression, almost sure that the way he felt was written across his features; was pouring from him, and into the space between them.

He blurted out the first question that came to mind: “Where d’you reckon that story came from anyway?”

Geralt sighed, shifting back against the tree. “People wanted a reason to hate our kind. People wanted a reason to cast out those too different to fit in. It’s always the same story. Why give Witcher’s bed or board or hospitality when they are just as bad as the monsters they hunt?”

Jaskier considered this for a moment. “What morons.”

There was a rumble of a chuckle, which Jaskier immediately committed to memory: rough, like the rest of Geralt, but with kindness hidden between the cracks. There was quiet for a few more minutes: just the sound of the forest slowly coming to life around them; the soft hoot of an owl: the insects in the undergrowth.

“I am sorry about your lute.” Geralt said softly, unexpectedly. Jaskier smiled, trying not to show the way the words caused warmth to trickle through him, slow and insidious.

“It’s okay. In the end, it was just wood and strings. It was the songs, the stories, that mattered, and they’re doing just fine. In fact,” He said, needing to brighten the atmosphere. “Did you want me to share with you my latest composition?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, then shifted himself until he was sat on his haunches, the way he always did when he needed to meditate.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier. We’ve got a long way to go tomorrow.”

Jaskier turned his face to hide his smile, then settled down for the night. And slowly, he drifted to sleep, with the gentle burring of the insects and the life of the forest around him, lulled by Geralt’s deep, even breaths.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier didn’t know where he was. Everything was a tumble of confusion and the rushing of water in his ears: cacophonous and chaotic. He felt his body flip helplessly in the water, but could do nothing to stop himself: the iron bands around his chest were unbearable, and the urge to breathe was overwhelming. He lashed out with his arms, hoping to force his way into open air, but he didn’t even know which way he was swimming: for all he knew he was only forcing his way further beneath the surface.

In amongst the fear and rushing water, there was a certain sick knowledge; he could not hold on much longer. _Geralt,_ he thought, a little despite himself. It wasn’t something he could help. When he was scared, when he didn’t know what to do, there was that childish part of him that called out for him; convinced that no matter the situation, he could save him. Maybe not this time, though. _Sorry, Geralt,_ he thought. Then he gave up, and let the water flood in.

~~~

When Geralt found Jaskier, he was going to wring his scrawny neck. Jaskier _knew_ not to head off alone; he _knew_ what these things were capable of, and he had to know what finding the empty camp would do to Geralt’s blood pressure.

The bigger part of Geralt was utterly focused on tracking Jaskier’s path through the woods. Broken branches and indented footprints: wherever Jaskier was heading, he’d been running. He kept tracing the path, over undergrowth and crushed bracken; and _shit_ , was that blood? Geralt felt his already fragile composure begin to crumble.

  
“Jaskier!” He whispered fiercely. “Where the fuck are you? Jaskier!”

The sounds of the forest mocked him in reply. He bent closer to the blood: fresh, and was that threads of Jaskier’s blue silk caught in the trees? He swallowed the lump in his throat, then risked a louder whisper.

“ _Jaskier!”_ Despite the frigidity of the night, sweat beaded on his forehead. Winter had set in early: if he were human his fingers would have been shaking as he pulled the blue thread from between the branches. As it was, they trembled only slightly, and not from the cold. The moon was so thin as to be almost invisible, and what precious light it did cast could not penetrate the thick treetops above.

Geralt kept moving, eyes scanning for the slightest sign of Jaskier’s passing. Amongst the sound of the forest around him, he could make out another sound: rushing water. Where they’d stopped to make camp was downstream from here: if Geralt knew Jaskier, and of the few things he was sure of, he knew he did, then Jaskier would have followed the river, back towards Geralt.

_Okay,_ Geralt thought. Somewhere to start, at least. He reached the river: it stretched out maybe a half dozen feet across; the water wild and wicked and inky black in the low light. There was violence in the way the water rushed down the slopes: slick, needle sharp rocks standing guard across the banks. There was the sense of something primitive; something that seemed to hiss warnings into the night air: _Stay away. This is a place of old, and mortal men do not belong here._

Good job he wasn’t a mortal man, then.

Geralt jutted out his chin and moved closer. _There-_ blood, almost black in the light, branches shoved aside; footprints. There were multiple sets: a larger pair, clearly Jaskier’s, and other, smaller pairs. Geralt swallowed, and moved closer. Yeah: the smaller prints had claws. Fear seized him, and the word escaped him before he could stop himself:

“ _Jaskier!”_ There was only the rush of water in response; then, the almost indistinguishable sound of a branch, snapping behind him. He swung round, sword aloft. There was only the darkness of the trees. Nothing moved. He breathed out: a slow, controlled release, then deliberately turned his back to the forest. Let them come: he had more important things to be doing.

The situation was easy enough to read: Jaskier, for whatever _godforsaken reason_ , had either followed the creature, or been followed, to the water’s edge. There was a struggle. Jaskier fell in. Right. So- and here, Geralt tried to push away the fear edging across his thoughts- he must have been swept along a little, then pulled himself ashore further down. Jaskier was a strong swimmer; he’d be fine. He couldn’t be anything else, the world was still turning, wasn’t it?

Geralt tried very hard to stay calm. He traced the waters path through the wood, edging along the riverbank: each side was lined with brambles, making passage nearly impossible, yet- _there._ The flash of blue silk on the shore- at first there was only relief, then bright shards of fear because Jaskier wasn’t _moving-_

Geralt was shoving his way through the bracken, brambles tearing at his hands, he was bleeding but panic had him by the throat now-

“ _Jaskier!”_ The word seemed to rip its way from him, at the site of the body lying prone against the shoreline. Geralt stumbled to his knees beside him: he yanked the body over, and Jaskier was a horrifying shade of white, his lips an awful blue. Geralt’s fingers fumbled at his throat, but the reassuring, constant beat of Jaskier’s heart was absent beneath his fingers.

Fear was suddenly a stranger. Geralt pulled Jaskier’s body completely from the water, onto more solid land. He tilted Jaskier’s head back: then began pumping his fists against Jaskier’s chest, the way he’d seen healers attempt when all else seemed lost: he did not cry, or beg Jaskier to return to him: instead, every fibre of his being was totally, completely focused on the task in front of him. _One breath, Jaskier._ He though fiercely. _Just give me one breath._ His movements were solid and rhythmic: _one two three four one two three four one two- fucks sake Jaskier- one two three-_

“Come on!” Geralt snarled aloud: he lifted both hands and brought them slamming back down onto Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier came back life with a violent lurch. His body spasmed as he retched; twisting as he coughed up half the river; water ran down his chin, mixed with a little bile: he heaved again, his entire body _shuddering_ -

Geralt breathed out, a sound that sounded shaky even to his own ears, then closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. His palm landed between Jaskier’s shoulder blades: at first to help expel the rest of the water from his lungs, but it stayed there: the feel of Jaskier’s rattling breaths travelling through Geralt’s fingers, up towards the heart of him, where they slowly embedded themselves. _Alive. He’s alive._

Jaskier looked up at him as his body eased, scared, with eyes that were so, so blue. And suddenly Geralt was entirely, indescribably angry.

He leaned close, and spoke, words more of a snarl than anything else. “You ever, _ever_ do anything like that again, and I will leave you at the first tavern I find. I will not come back, and I will not save you again, am I understood?”

Jaskier closed his mouth, from where he’d opened it, probably to thank Geralt with flowery, meaningless words and some stupid joke, then swallowed.

“Yea-“ He tried to say, but his voice was shredded and rough from the water. Geralt shook his head sharply, another flash of annoyance darting through him.

“Don’t talk, idiot. Just come on.” Despite himself, Geralt offered him a hand up: Jaskier’s hand was still horrifically cold: still white and waxy, a little like- Geralt cut himself off, yet more _angerfearannoyanceterror_ trembling through him. He let go of Jaskier’s hand abruptly.

Geralt lead the way back to camp, sure that the wood sprites had left. He didn’t know why, but they were alone in this part of the wood: the creatures that had begun this all had left. Maybe they too sensed the storm rolling within Geralt, and retreated. Smart animals. Maybe Jaskier should do the same. And yet, somehow, the bard had always lacked that instinct, the one that told him to run in the opposite direction, to back down from a Witcher with fury in his eyes.

Geralt did not say a word on the way back to camp. He didn’t think he could have if he wanted to. There was just- too _much._ Too much anger; too much of this swirling, choking emotion he did not have a name for. Anger was easier.

Jaskier seemed well enough on the journey back: Geralt walked just beside him, eyes ahead, not able to look at him without it all rising up again. A few times, Geralt sensed Jaskier look at him: open his mouth as if to say something. Each time, he thought better of it, deterred by the anger even Jaskier, dense as bricks when it suited, had to be able to sense pouring from him.

Roach let out a pleased little snort when she saw him, but Geralt didn’t have enough softness in him right then to go to her. He instead set to disbanding their camp with clipped, efficient movement; still unable to look at Jaskier. The quiet was unnerving. Even more unnerving was this horrible, choking storm inside him. Geralt didn’t know what to think, what to do. All he knew was that each time he caught sight of bedraggled blue silk and matching blue eyes, he wanted to scream. Or punch something; he couldn’t decide.

Behind him, he heard Jaskier approach Roach, heard his soft, slightly choked murmur. A human would not have been able to hear him.

“Hey girl,” He whispered to her, barely above a breath. “At least someone’s pleased to see me.” A moment passed: Geralt risked a glance to see Jaskier’s face buried in her neck. Even from here Geralt could see the shake of his shoulders. Geralt’s heart, or what passed for it, twisted in his chest. And what anger there was: and there wasn’t much of it, just fear dressed up in disguise: drained abruptly away.

Geralt stalked towards him: cursing his lack of softness even now: why couldn’t he be like Jaskier with his smooth words and easy affection? Instead, Geralt put a rough hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and pulled him around.

Jaskier looked up, confusion and misery clear, despite the tears he quickly tried to wipe away.

“Geralt, what-“ He cut himself off as Geralt’s arms went around him: iron bands pressed around his back.

“…oh.” He said, small and muffled. And then he was crying in earnest, face tucked into the space between Geralt’s neck and shoulder: arms just as tight round him, fingers digging into Geralt’s spine. Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s hair: still damp from the river and was glad there was nobody else here to see this. The great Witcher, brought to such weakness by a bard with a quicksilver smile and far too much to say. He breathed out, and felt something inside him: subtly, slowly; shift and settle into place.

“I meant what I said earlier.” He said quietly, “You will never, _ever_ do something like that again.”

Jaskier found his voice: the first time he’d ever had to reach for it, Geralt thought to himself.

“It’s not like I planned this.” He said, voice still slightly muffled. “In fact, I’d much rather have not spent my evening being dragged into a river by some crazy, surprisingly vertically challenged fairies.”

“Hmm.”

There was silence for a moment, then, hesitantly:

“Geralt? Thank you.” There was an uncertainness to Jaskier’s words, which was odd, considering Jaskier had never been uncertain of anything a day in his life. Geralt grunted again, then pulled away, pretending not to see the way Jaskier scrubbed at his face as he did so.

Roach nipped at Geralt’s chin, demanding his attention: it was easy to turn to her now, to run a gentle hand up her neck, giving both him and Jaskier the time they both needed to pull themselves together. This, they both knew without saying, would not be spoken of again. But before the odd softness had faded from the air, Jaskier spoke again, his voice soft but more confident now.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” Geralt did not know how to respond: he kept his eyes level with Roach’s, then nodded stiffly. And that was that: Jaskier turned to finish packing up camp: Geralt began filling the saddlebags.

Though it was still dark, neither wanted to stay put. The wood sprites had attacked Jaskier when Geralt hadn’t been in camp: Jaskier, for once, had consented to staying behind, citing tiredness and a chronic case of hurting feet. Geralt had been tracing a trail of them a half mile away: in completely the wrong place, apparently. He had found nothing: had returned to camp where he’d expected to find Jaskier, maybe tuning his lute, maybe already asleep. Instead, there was only Roach, and a sudden, sick fear in Geralt’s gut.

They were gone now, Geralt knew: they had melted into the trees themselves like ghosts, fearful of a Witcher’s wrath. And they should be: Geralt would not hunt them now, not with Jaskier still within the forest’s clutches, but soon. He’d be back, without the burden of heart and bard; he’d be back with fire and flames.

For now though, they made their way through the forest, led only by the almost non-existent light cast by the small sliver of moon, and Roach’s instinct. Jaskier sat up behind Geralt, arms wound more loosely around Geralt. Now that he had found his voice, Geralt almost wished he’d lose it again: it was as if: after being temporarily unable to speak after the river, Jaskier wanted to make sure he would not lose it again. He prattled about this and that: he briefly sang a set of scales that Geralt knew he usually did just before a performance, to warm up his voice; he talked about how good a ballad this was going to make. And for once, Geralt didn’t even have to resist the urge to tell him to shut up: instead he relaxed to the sound of Jaskier debating whether _river_ was a good rhyme with _shiver,_ or was that too simplistic?

The weird swirl of emotions in his chest had subsided, morphed into something new, something worse. The anger had gone, though there was still that odd, residual fear which diligently kept track of Jaskier’s every move: as Geralt accidently jostled back against Jaskier, was that a hitch in his breathing? Was that the water from the river? Was it an infection? The majority of Geralt could ignore pointless thoughts like these- what good did they do?

But there was something new, too: something that had just burst into being; something that had broken free of Geralt’s chest at the sight of the abandoned camp. Something that refused to be ignored. Geralt did not want to put a name on it: then it would have to be addressed, and that was something he did not want to do. No. It was not worth the inevitable heartbreak that it would bring to them both. Jaskier liked pretty girls in taverns: beautiful strangers who knew how to smile and hold easy conversations. It was easier to pretend this feeling did not exist: easier to let it be, and content himself with the sound of Jaskier’s voice in his ear, and the way his arms looped, easy and comfortable, around him.


End file.
